Rggins
by Connell
Summary: So...in I Think We Should Have Sex, Billy apparently abandoned the Riggins' ranch...and Tim. This is just one scenario in which I tried to envision how that all went down. Rated M for language only. Moved from miscellaneous television.


**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, but the mistakes that remain and an entirely unhealthy obsession with all things Riggins.

**Author's Notes**: This is set pre-_I Think We Should Have Sex_, and it contains spoilers through that episode. Muchos beta gracias go out, as ever, to **overnighter** and **crashcmb**. They remain entirely made out of awesome. Good parts, theirs. The crap, I'll own, like the Riggins-es own me Inspired, in part, by the deleted scene _Blinders-Part 1_, found at and Q-school is a golf tournament that you can enter to try to win your PGA card. It's expensive and intensive and grueling and only the top 30 make it, though hundreds compete.

Moved from miscellaneous television.  
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**Riggins**

Tim didn't look particularly surprised when he walked out into the living room with a week's worth of clean socks and boxers that he'd hastily and angrily stuffed into his battered duffle. After all, it wasn't like his little brother could have missed how much the tension in the house had escalated in the last few days. The animosity between Billy and their father had pretty much reached stratospheric levels, and the situation was due to blow at any second, unless one of them underwent a fundamental personality transplant, which—truth be told—didn't seem particularly likely. The kid could be exasperatingly and deliberately stupid sometimes, but Timmy wasn't exactly an idiot.

"So, uh…I'm gonna take off for a bit," Billy offered by way of explanation, motioning to the front door with both his bag and his chin.

"You mind defining _a bit_, Billy?" Tim asked, staring at the television and taking a long pull at his beer, though from the bored tone he'd affected, he didn't sound like he was especially interested in the answer.

"I just…hey, you invited him here," Billy replied, "I mean, I get that you've got a whole big mess of Daddy issues that you think you've gotta to work out with him, but…I…I don't, Tim…I just don't."

He tossed the duffle on the couch in frustration.

"I'm done. I've been there. I've seen that. I know _exactly_ how all of this turns out. And this? This whole…_happy family reunion_—thing that you've got goin' on in your head? Well—it's just that. It's fantasy, man. 'Cause this? This ain't exactly gonna end pretty. There's no such thing as a Hollywood ending where he's concerned. He has always been—and he will always be—a complete and utter prick."

Billy sat down beside his bag, turned slightly and hunched forward, leaning on his forearms, which were now propped up on his knees.

"He hasn't changed, Tim. I know that you want him to be all changed and everything—but he's not."

Billy hoped that his voice conveyed his earnestness and the seriousness of what he had to say.

"_That man_ is not capable of change, and if you hang out with him for much longer—if you put any faith in him whatsoever, he's gonna take it—he's gonna take it, he's gonna break it and he's gonna do his damnedest to try and break you. And when that happens…well, it's gonna hurt, Timmy. It's gonna hurt pretty goddamned bad…and…believe you me—he's a…he's a fucking master at it all."

Tim maintained his sullen slouch. His face remained impassive, but he had two high spots of color on his cheeks, a sure sign that—somewhere underneath all that practiced teenaged bullshit—the kid really was upset.

"How do you even know that, Billy? How do you know anything? You ain't even talked to the guy for two minutes since he's come home," Tim said in the languid and aggravating way that Tim said fucking everything.

"God, Timmy!" Billy stood up—suddenly too agitated to stay still. "The better question is—how do you _not_ know it?"

Knowing his brother as well as he did—knowing that Tim was upset—Billy was hoping that he could somehow exploit it. That he'd somehow be able to get through that thick skull of his. Though really, if he were being honest, it was because he knew his brother so well, that Billy was pretty damned sure that he had about as much of a chance of changing Tim's mind as he had of becoming the star running back for the Dallas Cowboys.

And, if he were being really, really goddamned honest, he'd pretty readily admit that he'd gladly give up the latter in a fucking heartbeat if he could somehow figure out a way to attain the former.

Tim, of course, just confirmed the hopelessness of his task with his next breath, delivered in the same irritating soft drawl.

"So, you just fixin' to take off, is that it, Billy?"

When he didn't answer immediately, Tim seemed to suddenly shift gears and go on the offensive, shaking his head and slitting his eyes, as if unable to contain his disappointment—his disgust, really—over his brother's decision. Like _Billy_ was the one playing the danged fool.

"He's trying, Billy. Dad's trying. He's at least trying and you're…you're just checking out. You'd think you could at least give the guy a shot."

"Yeah," Billy shrugged, suddenly all sorts of weary from dealing with his little brother. He just sighed and nodded, "I guess that's it exactly—I'm checking out."

He was not quite pacing. But he was sort of rocking back and forth, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"And no, I don't hardly think that _that dirtbag_ deserves another chance. Or…another _other_ goddamned chance. He ran through his chances long ago, Tim. His chances, then some…and then he went out and he fucking stole some other poor bastard's chances and ran through them, as well. He's done. Or I'm done…or…or whatever. Don't reckon it rightly matters."

He'd moved, so that he was blocking Tim's eyesight to their crooked and battered TV. Billy'd been thinking of replacing the television for a while now, since apparently time did not, in fact, heal all wounds. Especially when the wounded was an electronic device that was at least a decade old. The picture had gotten progressively wonkier since it had first been knocked to the ground in the fight between the brothers. Now though, with their father there, he considered himself pretty damned lucky that he hadn't gotten around to it yet. One less shiny thing to attract their father's eye when he inevitably walked out the door.

Tim was looking right through him, with unfocused eyes, but Billy could tell he was listening by the way he slowly rolled the longneck—back-and-forth—between the palms of his hands.

"I can't…I can't do this again…and I ain't—I ain't fixin' to stick around to watch you do it, either," Billy said.

"But, there _is_ another choice here, Tim," he continued slowly, cautiously.

"Just so I'm making myself as loud and fucking clear as a cowbell. I would love nothing better than to kick the sum-bitch to the curb. I mean…it ain't exactly like this is his house anymore, anyway. Just say the word, Timmy…just say the word."

Tim took another pull at the bottle and slowly shook his head, as though there was no need to waste his breath when they both knew what his answer was.

Billy waited a beat, then let another exaggerated puff of breath escape through his lips.

"All right then, I guess I'm gonna head on out."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled wad of money. It wasn't much, but it'd be enough to get Tim through the next week or so that Billy'd be holed up with Tyffani—well, shacked up, truth be told. But, it didn't exactly take a Rockefeller—or even a Garrity for that matter—to keep the boy in beer and Hot Pockets. Not that his dad would know; after all, the son of a bitch had sent exactly one check in the last two years. One check—for all of a whopping $200. So, thanks for that, _Dad_.

It wasn't the petty cash he was about to throw at his brother that roiled his gut, though.

It was the fact that the mortgage was due in just a few days and, as much as it chapped Billy's balls to know that he'd be subsidizing his father's rent-free living for as long as the deadbeat chose to stick around in Dillon and fuck around with his little brother's already plenty fucked-up head, he couldn't exactly afford to let the house slip into foreclosure, either.

Billy'd been pretty proud of the fact that he'd maintained the old family homestead for going on seven years now. Especially since there'd once been a time when he'd been certain that the odds were stacked up pretty goddamned high against him ever stepping through its front door again.

The day he'd turned eighteen, he'd left home. Well, he'd been kicked out, was more like it, after yet another epic fight with his father—a fight fueled by booze, aggravated by Walt's venomous tongue and brought to a brutal and bloody end when Billy had tackled the old man in hurt and in anger, only to have his own face bloodied mere seconds later with a couple of not-entirely-unexpected closed-fist punches.

It was a night that had started off well enough—at The Saloon, Walt's preferred watering hole. Billy had always been a bit wary of drinking with his father, but it had been his birthday, after all, and Walt had seemed in a good enough mood. Of course, Walt had almost always started off in a good enough mood. That night, all it took was a half-dozen boilermakers for his dad to shift abruptly but effortlessly into the inevitable _berate and demean_ part of the evening.

Billy'd taken the day off school to play 18 rounds with his dad. The bet—there was always a bet—was that Walt would buy a keg for Billy and his friends to celebrate his birthday that weekend or Billy'd be washing his dad's truck every Saturday for three solid months. Billy had bested his dad pretty handily and Walt had seemed to take it in stride—that is, till the booze hit. They'd been drinking beer out on the course all day, but for some reason mixing whiskey with beer had always brought Walt's mean out.

Billy had walked out in disgust about an hour after the verbal smack-down had started. After all, even back then there had only been so much he could listen to about what a pathetic failure he was—how he hadn't earned the right to wear the state championship ring that he sported so proudly; how he'd never earn his PGA card; how putting up half the money for Q-school would be a good goddamned waste—the cash better spent keeping the local population of armadillos in ice skates.

Walt had promised Billy on his sixteenth birthday that he would front half the money for Q-school, to be cashed in when Billy thought he was ready to give it a legitimate shot. Billy had spent the next two years contentedly forgoing birthday and Christmas presents, knowing that his dad was going to be forking out some major dough to secure Billy's future. Hell, the future of the whole Riggins' clan, since he was absolutely, positively sure that he'd be a major breakout on the PGA tour someday.

Of course, it had hit him right before he'd stormed out of The Saloon that his father had somehow come to the mistaken conclusion that his newly 18-year-old son had thought that _someday_ had arrived _that day_.

After all, they'd just spent the day on the course; Billy had beaten his dad by a good six strokes. Which was a pretty damned respectable margin. But, since he also wasn't slow as a fucking snail, bustin' a fucking terrapin for chrissakes, he also knew that to end a day with an eight under par—on a municipal course—a muni-course on which he'd been practically raised?—was not so much of an indicator that the time was right to sign up for Q-school. Especially since he'd been pretty damned sure that he'd only have the one shot, what with the cost.

So, along with the realization that his father had thought that Billy was cashing in his chit _right then_, had come the realization that—there was no chit to be cashed that night. And there never would be. And, as soon as it had dawned on him—Billy had pretty much walked away, not wanting to get into a confrontation at the bar. He'd walked the mile home, although he was still several blocks from the house, when his father had pulled up behind, honking and yelling, waking up half the neighborhood and otherwise making a complete and utter jackass out of himself.

It had seemed like an eternity before Billy had reached the house. He'd walked through the front door with Walt on his heels, still ranting in his ear. It had gone on for a long while, ending only when Billy had finally lunged at his dad, bringing him to the ground, unable to take anymore. No more words. No more broken promises. No more lies.

At the end of it all, his father had forcibly propelled him out of the house, sending him sprawling onto the cement walkway and then, as if to add insult to injury, he had locked the front door decisively in his wake. It was as Billy was gingerly picking himself off the walk and running through an internal inventory to make sure that none of his major bones were busted and none of his major organs were bleeding that a movement had caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. As he'd turned to see what it was, the blinds in the house next door suddenly snapped shut. So, someone in the Connaughton household had just caught the latest edition of…well, he had supposed, a not entirely atypical Friday night at the Riggins' house.

Billy had know then that he was done. The fact that he'd been forced by bad breeding and worse luck to live for as long as he had in the randomly violent and chaotic atmosphere of his childhood home was bad enough. But, he had turned eighteen that day. He had been just a couple of months shy of graduation. He really no longer _had_ to live there. And, as much as he'd hated to leave Timmy behind, he also had had to do it for himself. To survive with any part of himself intact. He had to start living his life, a life that he couldn't even contemplate starting, coming home as he had night after night after ever loving night to the genetic spunk that constituted the toxic crap that was his parental makeup.

Not that it was just his dad. After all, during Billy's whole happy birthday ass-kicking celebration, it wasn't like his mother had been standing there, in the doorway of the kitchen, apron on, gentle smile in place, holding out a cookie sheet still warm from the oven, waiting for her older son to blow out the non-existent candles resting lovingly on top of his non-existent cake.

Nope—his mother had just sat there, typically, if ineffectually at the breakfast bar with her dead fucking eyes, only occasionally remembering to flick the ash from her burning cigarette into an open neck of a beer bottle—one of the many that had been emptied and discarded on the bar weeks before—just…mouth-breathing….not saying a word, not attempting to intervene…just continuing on…just moving forward, living her useless shell of a life. Because, seriously? It hadn't mattered in the slightest that she had occasionally remembered to contain her ashes, considering the sizable dusting that had formed on the counter in the months since its last cleaning.

Billy had crashed for a few days, moving from couch to couch through the homes of a couple of his buddies, before scoring a small one-room apartment above the feed and tack store downtown, where he'd also scored his first job. He'd still been living there when Timmy'd shown up at his door, looking like he'd looked countless times before—lost and uncertain and already defeated. Like so many times before, but that night, different somehow.

"Billy, it's Mom—she's gone," Tim had said—and it was entirely that simple.

"Yeah, okay," Billy had blinked and rubbed his eyes with a heavy hand. He'd just come off a full shift, drunk way too much, screwed his girlfriend—twice—and had been pretty much looking forward to passing out—rising only to rinse and repeat the next day—when he'd heard the tentative rap at the door. A quick glance at the clock on the microwave had shown that it was just on the other side of midnight.

"Hey…you lookin' to stay here tonight?" he'd asked, absently scratching at his chest, then his stubbled chin, before lofting a silent thanks that Jewel had had to go home to look after her little sister before her mother'd had to leave for the late, late shift at Denny's.

Thinking about it even now, it was hard to believe that just those few small words could somehow change someone's life forever. Just a few words—words from a timid 11-year-old's mouth—and lives could be changed. Forever and irrevocably.

Tim had fiddled nervously with the strap of the book bag that had been draped over his right shoulder, even as he'd solemnly nodded, looking much smaller than his years.

As he'd come into the apartment, Tim had whispered, in a voice that had seemed just this side of tears, "She hasn't been home in a week—and Billy, I'm pretty sure she ain't fixin' to come back."

And that had been that. That was the exact moment that Billy had become Tim's parent. Not that Tim would ever admit it, or that Billy would ever put it in those terms. Especially since Tim relished in playing the little brother role to the hilt and he was damned quick to the draw as of late in pulling out the inevitable _you are not my dad_ card.

But, about a week after Tim had shown up on Billy's doorstep, they'd swung by the house and, in confirming that their mother had not been back, they'd also forged an even deeper bond between them. One that had been steeled by the systematic dialing of local hospitals and police precincts—calls which, at least, hadn't had her turn up either dead or arrested, just gone.

Sifting through his parents' mail, Billy had quickly realized that the mortgage on the house hadn't been a whole lot more than he was paying for the apartment over the feed and tack. Sure, he had known that he'd be paying on the home that his parents still technically owned and he'd be paying down their mortgage, but he certainly couldn't afford to buy a house on his own—plus the place was a lot bigger than the apartment and it hadn't been like he was going to ever see the rent he threw into that place again, either.

In the beginning, he had thought that he'd only be staying there for a few months. Just long enough for one of his parents to come to his or her senses and return for their younger son. But then months had turned into years and, despite the name on the deed, the house really felt like it had become Billy's. Billy's and Tim's.

Oh, Billy had had an exit plan. After Tim moved out and Billy was able to scrounge up enough to put a downpayment on his own place, he'd ditch the Riggins' old home, stop paying on the mortgage and let the bank take over.

The brothers had also soon discovered that medical, athletic and school forms were easily enough forged and they had settled down to a surprisingly normal existence—one that was much more comfortable for both of them than any single week in recent memory had been living with their parents.

That comfortable existence had lasted until Tim had run headfirst into adolescence. Of course, Tim had run headfirst into adolescence, but somehow Billy had been the one who had—however improbably—wound up with the concussion. One that had already lasted for four years and showed no sign of letting up anytime soon.

When Billy broke out of his reverie, he realized that he was staring at the boots. The boots that Walt had gotten for him in a blatant attempt to buy a truce with his older son. They were still sitting in their box at the end of the breakfast bar. Damned if Billy was gonna give his father the satisfaction of thinking that a pair of boots…okay, a pretty _sweet_-looking pair of _gen-u-ine_ snakeskin boots…was going to make Billy forget the years and years and goddamned fucking _years_ of living with his father. Well, his father and his drunken rages, his hateful, spiteful, horrible words, his occasionally deadly fists, his inability to keep a job, his stealing, his infidelity, his lies, and the…utter…_shittiness_ of living in the same tight quarters as that abusive _a-moral_ excuse for a human being.

Quite frankly, when their mother had taken off—about six months after their father had checked out—Billy had been relieved. No more fucking drama. Or, at least, not even a fraction of what it had been. Just little Timmy and his own damned self. And…as ill-prepared as Billy had been to take in his 11-year-old brother and assume full responsibility for the kid—any kid—he knew he was already a better parent than either of theirs had been.

_Save the drama for your mama._

Billy'd let out a small sardonic grin every time he'd heard that one. Because for the Riggins boys, the drama had always _been_ about the mama, with an extra-large helping of the papa on the side. Or on the top. Or whatever. Good riddance to the both of 'em.

If Billy could just get Timmy out of Dillon, if his brother could earn a BA or an Associate's Degree, or even a certificate from the local JuCo or VoTech for chrissakes, he'd be a helluva lot better off than any other Riggins who'd ever breathed before.

"Here," Billy said, gruffly, as he shoved the money into Tim's hand.

"I don't need your money, Billy," Tim said, though he made no move to give it back.

"I know," Billy said absently. "Just—do me a favor and make sure you keep it on you at all times. Just know that—Dad? Well…he's not above going through your pockets—or rifling through your drawers, if he gets a whiff of money laying about."

"I think someone's exaggeratin', " Tim drawled.

"Yeah…wishful thinking, man. I don't know what else I can say to you for you to see just how…_toxic_…that man is. He's a drunk, he's a liar…and he _will_ hurt you."

"I think you've been watching too many Lifetime movies, Billy. He's not a serial killer. He's just—Dad."

Billy drew in a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds, and then released it.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather take my chances with the serial killer."

Tim just took another long pull on his beer.

"Tim?"

Reluctantly, Tim looked up, apparently because Billy's tone was suddenly all sorts of serious again.

"I don't know where this whole…you and Dad…_thing_ is headed, but I'll be at Tiff's if you need me. Just sayin'."

"Just sayin' what, Billy?" Tim was all big eyes, lank hair and fake confusion.

"I'm just sayin'…that if it ever gets to be too much…or if he even lays one frigging finger on that—mop of greasy hair on your head…you come and get me. He's got not one goddamned right to…to mess with you in any way, Tim. Don't let him."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever," Tim said, already turning his attention back to the NASCAR race that was playing on the television, "I'll see you when I see you."

"Right," Billy sighed, "Just…take care of yourself, Tim."

--Fin--


End file.
